


Stars in Ink

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Tattoos, Threesome - M/M/M, established threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 06:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: When Noctis asks for some information about tattoos, Nyx searches the Lucian city for the right artist.





	Stars in Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GwiYeoWeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/gifts).



> Prompted over at my Tumblr.

There were many little shops and spots and galleries in Insomnia— the thriving, bustling, isolated kingdom within a kingdom built on itself for layers and breathing room and more than a sense of clawing, suffocating metropolis. Nyx had spent the first few years in the city wandering the narrow streets and pedestrian crossings, learning the veins of transit lines and roadways that seemed more manicured and cared for the closer they reached the shining centre and beating heart of the Citadel. He had spent long, restless nights learning the little pockets of familiar life in the alien, Lucian world. 

He was ready when the questions came. 

Recruits from his homeland asked for familiar traditions and customs. Recruits from the corners of the Lucian kingdom asked for his advice on nightlife and city living. 

But Noctis— the soul of the kingdom, if Nyx was ever asked when in one of his more romantic moods— asked for directions every so often too. 

“A tattoo shop?”

“Artist, whatever.”

“Why, little star?”

“Just curious.”

Nyx knew most of the artists in his little home district. They visited bars he went to, they worked on Glaives who talked, who bragged, who complained. He had found his own nestled deep in the refuge the Galahdians had claimed. A clean little place that specialised in the symbols and lines and marking of different clans in Galahd. He liked the quiet little corner he had found. But it was set deep in the skin of the shining city. 

It’s colourful banners and lively music might shake the forests back home or reverberate across the mountains he grew up with. But they weren’t Lucian. 

“Shouldn’t you be asking your very large, very inked Shield for this?”

“I’m asking you.”

Noctis liked to trace his marks. He liked to follow the narrow, clear lines marred by scars and wounds and time. He had never asked what they meant, or where he got them, or why. He had never asked for details or stories, or any of the questions Nyx had expected when he showed up with something new healing and out of place, still settling into his skin and tender. 

Noctis never asked. He just accepted them as part of Nyx himself. 

The Lucian shops boasted their skills. The artists had shining, obvious portfolios posted on walls and in thick books of pictures and colour. Testimonials scattered across walls and pamphlets, posters and between patrons. Nyx knew that the Shields had their own preferred place— near their estate in the shadow of the Citadel— that boasted the eagle emblem in their own name. He knew that the Amicitias had spent generations marking themselves and their stations, and that the honour that came with giving the royal Shield their wings was something that kept the place in business for just as many generations. Nyx knew that apprentices flocked to that shop, aspired to that shop, trained and tried and threw everything they could be into that little, quiet, glittering ideal of Lucian art. 

“Thinking of getting a tattoo, little king?”

No place in the kingdom would be stupid enough to mark up the Crown Prince. 

No place, even the favoured artists of the Amicitia line, would dare consider putting a spot of unnecessary ink on Noctis. 

“Maybe.”

Lucians, as far as Nyx was aware, never did have a sense of adventure. 

He asked around, and visited the places he knew. He checked them out when he could, between shifts and on days off. He kept Noctis patient with a kiss and a smile, and a little tease that they would need to keep the plan a secret. Because his head was not going to roll over some inexperienced artist bragging to the rest of the world that the Crown Prince of Lucis was a wild child at heart. 

“What were you thinking?”

He had searched the Citadel shops— the glittering, boasting places that fanned out in little territories of their own. Narrow streets groomed for the wealthy were cluttered with the signs and advertisements, the shining markers of the talent the kingdom wanted to draw on. He found a few Glaives who had tried them— who showed off impressive artistry and lines, ink etched images and reminders. Colours blended like painting among the best, and intricate details that would stand out stark for a lot less time than Nyx knew they really should. He found vanity projects and recommendations from the Guard, from the patrons of favourite bars and pubs. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Noctis had confessed when they talked it over at one of the small bistros scattered between the wide, vibrant avenues. “Something small, and simple. Maybe.”

Nyx’s own artist was a quiet woman who refused to tolerate impatience. She was from his own hometown, and had recognised her name. She had smiled when he first stopped in for a compass mark with Libertus— to lead him back home one day. 

“Maybe a star?”

Gladiolus had come with Noctis when they visited the little shop. Nyx had pleaded for an afterhours visit, offered better pay and higher rates. The woman had take a look at Noctis and put her usual portfolio away with a wary glare to Nyx. 

“What about something like this?”

Nyx had been on edge the whole time. He had watched the second, more well worn book come out, and watched as the artist told Noctis that if he was serious, he needed something meaningful. Something that she was going to be proud to do. 

Gladio had smiled at the ultimatum, and broke the confused tension with a teasing “Want a crown?”

The artist cut in before the banter could start; “where’s it going?”

“On a scar.”

“Let’s see it, highness.”

When the work started, Nyx forced himself to sit still. He forced himself not to intrude, not to step in while Noctis bit his lip and tried not to squirm under the attention. When it started, and the first line started, the first dot, the first arrow, Nyx forced himself to lean forward and smile as Noctis made faces under the needle. 

They had settled, after consultations and talks, coffees and late dinners, that Noctis was not the sort of person for a single star, or a crown. He was not the easiest patient, or the more understanding patron. They had decided that it would just be the one tattoo, the single image etched in skin and ink, and nothing else. 

“Almost there, little king.”

Galahdian arrows were marks of home. They were promises and symbols. Around the eyes was clarity and loss, along the arms was strength and guidance. Libertus added on to his at every anniversary and holiday. Nyx added to his own at every failure. 

Gladio had laughed and smiled, and eyed the work as it was done. Had offered encouragement over the sittings and sessions to tighten the image and marks and clean up the roughness of the first work. His feathers ruffled as he watched his Prince grimace and hold still and fight back the urge to squirm away. As he sat next to Nyx and let Noctis grip his hand during the rough moments, muttering little reminders of when their positions had been reversed. 

And in the end, as it healed and ended, and Noctis twisted in front of a mirror to see the finished work, it was glorious. Nyx kissed the trail of arrows and stars with a grin as Noctis whined at him for more attention. Gladio let his fingers trail along the edges of the lines, the scar they crossed and covered and drew attention away from. 

“Didn’t know you liked constellations, Noctis,” Nyx said when he had the chance to fully admire the finished work. 

Gladio’s low rumble of a chuckle warmed the space between them; “You have no idea, Ulric. He used to steal Iggy’s books on the stars all the time.”

“I’m awake, you know.” 

“That’s a first,” Nyx chased the teasing with a kiss, and sat back again to admire the constellation that followed the silver scar left by a daemon blade. “It suits you.”

“It had better.”

“It does,” Gladio agrees. “Galahdian constellations are underrated as far as tattoos go.”

“Good,” Noctis had insisted on the familiar figure— the gentle curve of the familiar shape, the point and subtle extensions of others. Six little Galahdian stars for the body, the arrows pointing the pattern of the constellation itself. And a Lucian star for the crown, with just a subtle touch of colour for the red star of Carbuncle’s ruby horn. “I like it.”


End file.
